Reconciliation Hath Empowered Me
by Corelli Sonatas
Summary: Edith reveals Marigold's lineage to the Crawley family on New Year's Eve, and she is touched by the responses she receives from Tom and Mary. From Edith's point of view. Post-Series Five finale.


"Now, if you would all raise your glasses to yet another fortunate year."

Papa lifts the sparkling glass of wine from the table, which is clothed in violet.

Everyone is so clueless, and that is what renders the dinnertime chaste and unsullied.

They do not know that the child I've brought to Downton is my own; and I shall announce it tonight.

Is it harsh that I wish to spoil the jubilance of the night? Might it concern Papa, or will it encourage Mary to assert a nasty remark?

"Cheers to that," agrees Isobel, and the rest of my family smiles whilst clanging glasses with one another.

I am not one of them. Not yet.

For me to surrender my secrets would make me a fully-fledged Crawley; in our house, that which is hidden is sinful and distasteful. I must confess.

Granny is grinning at Mama; Mary and Tom are chuckling over George and Sybbie, who have joined us for the New Year's festivities. Save for my slumbering child, are all here - those who still remain alive in our family - and yet I feel no connection to them.

I crave sympathy.

Sympathy that would derive from Isobel's reassuring words that I have done right upon bringing my daughter to Downton; sincerity that would come from Tom's comforting embrace after I have spent all tears on my blight. Even Mary's momentary empathetic words or gestures would serve me well; and so I announce after my family have all finished with the toast,

"I have something I must say… It regards the child - Marigold - and…" I cannot continue; Michael's sweet smile invades the sanity in my mind, yielding everything that had driven me to this confession utterly useless. Mama cocks her head toward me immediately. She does not agree with my motives - at least, not at the present.

But I must tell the truth about my daughter; I must reveal Michael's sacrifice. "Before Michael Gregson left for Germany…" I pause, collecting sufficient breath as the air in the room is static and humid. Mary's eyes are focused on my figure, and I suspect she understands.

"Michael did not know when he left…that he had a daughter, Marigold…and I am the little girl's mother."

"Oh, Edith," exhales my sister - the one whose reaction I cannot fathom - and I feel my lips trembling. Bleary eyes and painful doubts blight me, as my inability to finish the story only grows worse. I can no longer see, but I can feel: Isobel's sorrow, Tom's pure shock, Mama's collapsed hope that I would conceal the truth for much longer. And then Papa…

"She looks very much like him," I hear my father remark; beautifully agonising are his words, so much that I raise my chin to have a peek at his countenance.

He has known it. I can tell. And I thank the Lord for this, because if he hadn't… I cannot come to imagine if the contrary were valid; the consistent silence in the dining-room stalls the conversation's progress.

Thank heavens the servants are downstairs for the evening repast! Even I cannot bear the pity I receive when Isobel and Tom - who sit on either side of me - lean in toward me to console my mind. George and Sybbie have been obediently quiet until now, when Mary's son questions, "Mare-gowld?"

I chuckle at this, only to meet thickly inevitable tears afterward. Mary looks not at her son, but rather remains persistent in my direction. As I peer round the table, I can sense my family's subsiding surprise.

Multiple people want to speak; whether their words will condemn or comfort, I cannot know. But my papa starts with an apology: "I am sorry about the state in which Marigold's father died. For her sake and his, I will be the first to admit that I shall not be upset by the past."

"What is past is gone," Granny chimes in, and she attempts to smile at me. Her heart very well understands, however, the extent to which I value and yearn for the past.

"The point is," Isobel adds, "you have brought your darling girl here to Downton. And what better outcome for the child than for her to reside among her own mother, and grandparents, and cousins -"

"Aunt Edith," calls Sybbie from the opposite end of the table. "Marigold is my cousin, then? Just like George?"

Her question stings me: it is more of a challenge to my outlook on the illegitimate child of mine's residence among her appropriately conceived cousins. George grins upon Sybbie's mention of him, and I force a smile at the children. They cannot know the true nature of Marigold's existence, I remind myself.

Mary answers Sybbie for me, beaming with purposeful pleasantness: "Of course she is! Now, are we going to watch the clock strike twelve?"

"Yes!" shout the children. I suddenly become emotional; all has gone too well, which causes me to wonder whether the remainder of the night will come and go with sweet resolve.

Papa has pursed his lips; obviously he is both impressed by and proud of Mary's reaction to the present circumstances, and so he and Mama rise from the table to commence the journey out of the dining-room and into the library.

Out of kindness does Tom walk with me; he leaves his daughter to Mary's domain, and I appreciate the softness with which he treats me. I need it.

"You are braver than you might think," he assures me. We pass through the grand downstairs hallway, and I smile sadly at my accompaniment.

"I wish I could see it that way."

"You are," he reemphasises. "Look at it this way: your child would have remained something of an outsider throughout her childhood - that is, until everyone else knew. Her father is not here for her; she needs every bit of family she can get…and you've gifted her with that."

My heart commences a pattern that it employs when I am nervous - which I am. "Do you condemn the nature of her birth? Will it hurt her reputation, especially now that everyone knows?"

"Edith, your family does not seek to harm you or Marigold. We love you; what Mary's just done… I consider it safe to say that she did it out of love. She lost a husband, and now she knows you have done…in a similar way. And that -" he touches my arm gently, and this convinces me that Tom is now a brother to me - "should give both of you hope."

I ponder that which he has stated straightforwardly to me, and then thank him. "I want to repay you for your steadfastness, Tom, but I find myself incapable of the task… Thank you - for never turning away from me. Your words are music to my ears; God knows I'd only heard suffering and fright until now."

He nods reverently; we proceed to the library, where I find Carson at the entrance with my daughter. "Darling," I greet her, relieving the butler and thanking him in kind.

Mary approaches me without any of the usual airs in which I usually find her. "I feared the children wouldn't have borne another several minutes at the table; that is why -"

"I sincerely appreciate what you did," I confess without warning. My sister closes her mouth and stares for a moment at me; this makes me wonder whether something odd is on my face. "Forgive me," I apologise for my interruption.

She shakes her head and offers a hand to me. "It is shameful for me to think back to all I ever commented regarding Gregson - Michael - forgive me." I accept her hand whilst balancing Marigold with my left arm and hand.

"Please let us not return to the way things were in the past, Mary," I plead. My request comes not from my mind but from my heart; for a decade I have longed to confess to my sister how unbearably painful it is when we quarrel. She lets go of my hand, and I watch her wipe the wetness from her eyes. For once in my life, I am certain that she cares about me.

Or about my child, and the loss I have endured. But I accept any empathy I can receive from my only-remaining sister, and it comforts me when she invites me and Marigold to draw closer to the fireplace. The clock is on the mantle; George and Sybbie peer raptly at its hands, wonderment energising their blue eyes as they stare in anticipation for the New Year to come.

One minute more until we are living in the year 1925. I hug my daughter to my chest, but she appears eager to join her cousins on the floor. Still George and Sybbie peer up at the clock on the mantle.

At last I feel that I can release Marigold into the loving confines of Downton. She is one of them now, and I have confidence that my announcement has rendered this possible. Mary is now my ally rather than my enemy; Tom is increasingly understanding of my past and present troubles; and Mama and Papa can both marvel at their third grandchild's entrance into a home that has never failed to protect me.

Isobel, Papa, Mama, Granny, Mary and Tom are all gathered in a circle round the children. George notices my daughter behind him, and he turns round to exclaim, "Watch the cwock, Mare-gowld!"

Sybbie, too, averts her attention from the magnificent ticking of time on the fireplace-mantle. "Look up, Marigold!"

To the older children's disappointment, the hour-hand meets the number twelve when they are inattentive. Mary opens her mouth to say something, but a chime is all the three darlings need to know that they have missed the moment. "It is now 1925," Papa announces. "Happy New Year, everyone."

Sybbie and Marigold look at George in shock. "What?" the eldest questions, unbelieving that she did not witness the change in the year. "Oh, no! We did not watch the clock!"

"That's all right, sweetheart," Tom assures his daughter from behind. Sybbie runs into his legs and weeps silently, although I know this will not last. I smile at Marigold's face; she stares silently at the clock for one moment, and then she claps her hands.

She looks at me. "Mama!"

I feel the countenances of many upon my face, but I do not hide my delight at my daughter's sign of contentment. "Happy New Year, my darling!" I respond, the corner of my eye catching approving smiles from Isobel's and Granny's lips.

Mary leans down to take a mercurial George into her arms. "Say 'Happy New Year' to Cousin Marigold, George." She positions him toward my daughter, and almost instantly he lights up at the sight of Marigold's cheery expression.

"Happy New Year, Mare-gowld!"

A New Year, indeed.


End file.
